Carla Kelly (5 page)

The crowd on the platform had thinned. Julia resumed her pacing, glancing down every now and then to look at the watch pinned to her lapel.
I know that telegram said the noon train, and this is Thursday,
she told herself. She wondered for a moment if Mr. Otto's elderly wife had taken a sudden turn for the worse.
I hope not,
she thought.
I have only so many restoratives for an invalid's appetite.

She continued to pace the platform. The stationmaster shooed away the lounging cowboys and then went inside. The train remained at the depot, and the engineer, stretching and then touching his hand to his back, climbed down from his perch. He handed a clipboard to a waiting engineer and went inside the depot too. Several of the salesmen stood together, talking and laughing, their sample cases clustered around them. She watched as the man in the linen duster approached two older ladies, both of whom turned away when he finished talking to them.

The wind tugged at Julia's hair, teasing out curls here and there. I will make such an impression on Mr. Otto, she thought in dismay. Let us hope he has cataracts.

She noticed that the man in the linen duster kept frowning at her trunk and two crates.
He doesn't look like a thief,
she thought.
But if he pulls up that handkerchief around his neck to cover his nose and mouth, and yanks out a pistol, I'll tell him that he's only getting aprons, winter underwear, and more spices than he will know what to do with. Perhaps he can use the chafing dish and pie crust crimper.
She continued her pacing.

Ten minutes passed, and then the stationmaster called in a loud voice. “Boooaaarding now! Boooaaarding now! Allll Abooard!”

“Oh, dear,” she whispered. Within five minutes, the depot was deserted. Even the man in the linen duster had vanished. No, he was inside the depot with the stationmaster, and they were both looking through the pages on the clipboard.

He's having no better luck than I am,
she thought as she walked to her trunk and perched herself on it. She gathered the valise onto her lap, grateful that Papa had insisted she take along enough money for the fare home. She could catch the train south tonight.

She glanced over her shoulder. The man in the linen duster was standing in the doorway looking at her, his hands on his hips. She calmly returned his gaze but blanched and glanced away as the horrible realization hit her. Her mouth went dry.
I think I am about to pay for the sin of prevarication. Heavenly Father, I promise to be good! Please don't let him come over here,
she begged.

He did. She winced, afraid to turn around as he stopped beside her crates.
I have made a big mistake,
she thought.

“ ‘Two crates and a trunk. Stop. Julia Darling. Stop,’ ” he said.

She took a deep breath, turned around on her trunk, and held out her hand. “Mr. Otto?” she asked in her calmest voice, which came out more like a squeak.

He took her hand in a firm grip. “ ‘Mature graduate of Fannie Farmer's Cooking School'?” he asked, quoting her reply to his advertisement. She could not overlook the disbelief in his firm voice.

She didn't know what imp made her do it, but the doubt in his eyes stiffened her spine. “ ‘Long-time stable rancher'?” she quoted.

He released her hand then. She looked over toward the stationmaster, who was standing in the doorway now and stifling what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“I've been ranching alone since I was fifteen,” he replied, “and that was twenty years ago. I would say that was ‘longtime,’ especially out here.”

He studied her for such a lengthy time that she half expected him to walk around her and then examine her teeth. She felt her toes digging into the soles of her shoes.

“Darling, I suppose the issue remains: can you cook?” he asked finally.

“It's
Miss
Darling, and yes, I can cook,” she replied.

“You're too young.”

“I'm almost twenty-eight,” she replied, trying to sound as firm as he did.

“Twenty-seven, then.”

“Well, yes,” she said, irritated with herself.

“Always say what you mean, Darling. Second rule for living in Wyoming.”

“Did I miss rule number one, Mr. Otto?” she asked.

He pointed to the hat in her hand. “No hats like that. They spook cattle.”

“Oh.”

He looked around then and indicated the porter with only the smallest flick of his finger. The man started his way instantly.
How does Mr. Otto do that?
she asked herself. One or two words, and the porter turned away to find a dolly and fetch her baggage.

The rancher turned back to her. “You're still too young,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I'll have to curb my bunkhouse Romeos.”

She blinked. “Will this be a problem?”

“Hardly. People do what I say, Darling.”

Outside the depot, the porter had loaded the crates on the dolly. He looked expectantly at Otto, who nodded to him and started to follow. She stood where she was.

“Come if you want, Darling,” he said over his shoulder.

“It's
Miss
Darling,” she muttered under her breath.

“He calls everyone by their last name, miss,” the station agent whispered to her. He laughed, but softly. “In your case, it may be a trial.”

“What do
you
call him?” she whispered back as she heard her crates sliding into a wagon.

“Mr. Otto, of course,” the man said, surprised.

“But he is younger than you are!” she protested in a louder whisper.

The stationmaster only shrugged his shoulders. “He's Mr. Otto around here.”

Her employer was nowhere in sight. She opened her valise to stare at her purse.
I have train fare home,
she thought. She glanced at her watch.
I could be in Cheyenne by evening.
“Cook desperate. Stop,” she murmured.

“If I buy a ticket to Cheyenne, is it valid anytime?” she whispered to the stationmaster.

His grin widened. “You bet, Miss Darling.”

Mr. Otto came to the doorway. “Coming?” he asked, in that level way of his.

“In a moment, Mr. Otto,” she replied as she took her purse from the valise. She was at the counter then, and the stationmaster quickly sold her a ticket. “Always have an out,” she murmured.

Calmly she put the ticket in the valise and turned around to face her employer, who was still silhouetted in the doorway.
Go or don't,
she told herself. “Of course I'm coming, Mr. Otto,” she replied. “I came here to cook.”

When she was standing in front of him, he stepped aside and took her valise. He held it out, as if indicating the ticket inside. “Insurance, eh?”

Be calm. Be serene like Mama,
she thought. She considered everything she could reply and rejected all of it.

“Yes, indeed.
My
rule number one.”

uit yourself,” was his only comment as he walked toward the wagon. “Let me give you a hand up.”

Dismayed, she looked at the high wagon seat and then down at her slim skirt, so newly fashionable in Salt Lake City but such a liability right now. “Mr. Otto, I am afraid this is not a practical outfit.”

“Rather like the hat, eh?”

Her face grew hot as he walked behind her to survey her predicament. “Can I undo this little button to liberate these pleats?” he asked.

“No! It's just for ornament,” she said in a hurry. “It won't come undone.”

“Suppose you ever had to run?”

“Mr. Otto, ladies don't run in Salt Lake City,” she retorted, aware how stupid she sounded.

“You could hike it up,” he said. “I won't look. Put your arms around my neck, Darling.”

“I would never!”

He picked her up. She grabbed for his neck as he tossed her onto the wagon seat as neatly as though she weighed nothing. He caught her hat that she dropped and, with a graceful motion, sailed it into the wagon bed, where it came to rest on what looked like a large screw. Her eyes widened as he set the screw on the hat.

“The windmill screw will anchor it,” he told her. He climbed up beside her.

“That hat cost five dollars,” she said, when she could speak.

He whistled under his breath. “You got taken.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say something about how stylish it was, and even conservative, considering the width of the brims seen at church and on city streets. “I suppose it
is
a little extravagant,” she said, gulping down her pride in chunks.

“Sort of like those things that the girls wear over there.” He nodded in the direction of the tracks to a house painted an improbable yellow.

She should have known better. She looked and looked away quickly, but not before she glimpsed a woman hanging over the sill of a second-story window, wearing only her shimmy. Her dismay deepened when her employer tipped his hat to the woman.

“Maizie the Mole,” he commented. “Fifty, if she's a day.” He spoke to his horses, not raising his voice to them any more than he did to people. “C'mon, boys.” They moved off with an even stride, ears perked forward.

“I don't care to know how she came by that name,” she said but then wanted to bite her tongue.
Why am I making conversation about fancy houses?
she asked herself in total agony.

“I wasn't going to tell you. Need anything in town?”

My head examined,
she thought. “An alarm clock, Mr. Otto.”

“Waste of money,” he said. “I'll knock on your door every morning at five.”

“Oh.”
I have known this man less than twenty minutes, and I am reduced to monosyllables,
she thought in amazement.
Even Ezra couldn't do that.

He spoke to his horses and tugged on one rein. In a moment they had crossed the street and stopped before a general store. “I saw some bananas in here this morning.” He jumped down, tied the team, and came around to her side.

She could have cried with relief to be back in her own element again. “Yes, that would be excellent,” she said as she leaned over. “I have a wonderful recipe. You mash a banana with flour and lemon juice, and then deep fry it.”

He helped her down. “I had in mind just peeling them and eating them.”

She laughed. “Miss Farmer would tip over in her wheelchair if she thought I ever let a banana leave my kitchen untouched!”

“Hmm,” was all he said.

She didn't know what demon drove her to continue talking. “You'll never know it's a banana, especially with enough powdered sugar.”

“H'mm,” he said again, in exactly the same tone.

He didn't take his hat off in the store, but none of the other men were bareheaded, either. The clerks were busy, but as soon as he approached the counter, one of them broke free. He had the clerk pull down the banana stalk and slice off a dozen green bananas.